


The moment of truth in your lies

by silkspectred



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV First Person, References to Suicide, italian lit references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 00:37:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkspectred/pseuds/silkspectred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, this is the product of a night spent translating Ivy Blossom's works, and it shows. But still. I wanted to share it with you guys before series 3 starts.</p><p>I wrote it months ago, and never found the courage to upload it. But here we are now.<br/>Also, this is the first thing I've ever written in my life, so be kind to me.</p><p>Oh, you should all keep in mind that I'm not an English native speaker. This work was beta'ed though, by the wonderful blessedjessed. Other mistakes are entirely my fault, I apologise in advance and if you'd be so kind to point them out to me I'll make the necessary corrections.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The moment of truth in your lies

 

Quando si parte l'anima feroce  
dal corpo ond'ella stessa s'è disvelta,  
Minòs la manda a la settima foce.

Cade in la selva, e non l'è parte scelta;  
ma là dove fortuna la balestra,  
quivi germoglia come gran di spelta.

Surge in vermena e in pianta silvestra:  
l'Arpie, pascendo poi de le sue foglie,  
fanno dolore, e al dolor fenestra.

Come l'altre verrem per nostre spoglie,  
ma non però ch'alcuna sen rivesta,  
ché non è giusto aver ciò ch'om si toglie.

Qui le trascineremo, e per la mesta  
selva saranno i nostri corpi appesi,  
ciascuno al prun de l'ombra sua molesta.

(Dante Alighieri, Commedia, Inferno, XIII, vv. 94-109)

When the exasperated soul abandons  
The body whence it rent itself away,  
  Minos consigns it to the seventh abyss.

It falls into the forest, and no part  
  Is chosen for it; but where Fortune hurls it,  
  There like a grain of spelt it germinates.

It springs a sapling, and a forest tree;  
  The Harpies, feeding then upon its leaves,  
  Do pain create, and for the pain an outlet.

Like others for our spoils shall we return;  
  But not that any one may them revest,  
  For 'tis not just to have what one casts off.

Here we shall drag them, and along the dismal  
  Forest our bodies shall suspended be,  
  Each to the thorn of his molested shade.

(Translation by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

 

I’m back. I shouldn’t be back. He said so. _It’s not possible, Sherlock. You died. I saw you_. Yes. He saw me. I was dead. Except, I wasn’t.

It has been three years. Three years since I jumped. Since the day he saw me. Dying, on the pavement. But I wasn’t dying. Not really. It was just a trick.

Things that were there during those three years: blood, wounds, hoodies and jeans and trainers I didn’t want to wear but I had to, filthy places in which I had to hide, airports at night, texts from Mycroft, Italy, Norway, Latin America, languages I didn’t speak and that I had to learn, snipers to chase, people to kill, weapons to kill the aforementioned people, cigarettes, cocaine, undernourishment, the gut wrenching agony caused by the inevitably consistent absence of John.

Things that are here now: clean skin, scars, my suits, my shirts, my leather shoes, the possibility to speak English and be perfectly understood, the news on the BBC, London, my books, my laptop, my chair, my microscope, tea, the smell of 221B, the periodic table of elements, food that I will eat even if I don’t want to, my body that feels like mine in a way it never has, John.

John.

I associate him with the most disparate things: soap, light, sand, guns, warmth, books, water, beer, hideous wallpapers, dull passwords, the lab at Bart’s, a spotless white sofa, nicotine withdrawal, severed heads, brown leather, a room which wasn’t a double room, soil, mud, stones, trees, sugar, pink, shouting on the phone, a blank sky, blood on the pavement.

No. No. _No_.

John is here, again. No. _I_ am here again. I am the one who has returned, he was the one who stayed. Here. Waiting. Waiting for me. No. He wasn’t waiting. He thought I was dead, he didn’t expect me to come back. Such a thing is not allowed by the laws of this world. But I didn’t care. I did it anyway. I died, I killed myself. And then I came back. To him. I came back. But it’s not right. It shouldn’t be possible, it shouldn’t be allowed. It’s not, in fact. I didn’t really die. I wasn’t really dead. But I was. I felt like I was.

I was dead. But I’m not dead now. I came back. It’s not right. It’s not right. _Non è giusto aver ciò ch’om si toglie_. I shouldn’t have everything back. I don’t deserve to have everything back. I killed myself. I left Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson, _Greg_ Lestrade, Molly. Mycroft. John. I left John.

I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve to be here again, in my bed, under my clean sheets, my skin free of any filth or blood, my lungs free of cigarette smoke, my veins with no cocaine whatsoever rushing in them, my flat full of John.

I’ve missed him. I’ve missed him so much. He thought I was dead, I thought I would never see him again. As if _he_ was the one who was dead. I didn’t know if I would ever be able to come back home. But I could. I’m home. I’m with John.

John. John killed him. The last one. He killed him because that’s what John does. He kills people, for me. To protect me, to help me. He kills people, bad people. People.

I felt something when he killed Moran. I guess it was relief. Or happiness. Because in the end I _did_ do it. It took me three years, but in the end, I won.

It feels so strange to be here again. Sometimes I still think _now I will open my eyes and I will see the ceiling of my filthy room in Sicily_. But then I open my eyes, and all I can see is the ceiling of my room, of 221B, of home.

I shouldn’t think about it. That’s not my life anymore. Now my life is how it used to be. Beautiful. I tried to delete those memories, at least some of them, the most painful ones. Painful memories, odd. Memories aren’t supposed to hurt anyone. But they do, they do. Somehow they do. And I couldn’t delete them. I wouldn’t. Somehow, those things changed me and they won’t go. I’m forced to keep them. To remember. But it’s good.

But it’s not good right now. I feel like I’m not real. I feel like nothing of this is real. Sometimes it happens. Sometimes I really can’t believe that I did it. That it’s over, now. That everything is fine. That John is upstairs, sleeping, smelling of tea and Chinese and himself, _himself_ , the most stunning scent I’ve ever smelled.

I know what I need. But I can’t get what I need now. He is sleeping. He is in his room. He is not reading the newspaper on the sofa, I can’t go next to him and casually put a hand on his knee pretending that I need a bit of support to sit down. I can’t put my hand on his shoulder when he sits at our desk in the living room asking him if he would like some tea. Because I do that. I make tea.

I can’t touch him right now. I can’t. I need to touch him. I need to touch him immediately. He is not here, is he? He is not. I can’t touch him because he is not here. He can’t be here. I am not here. John. Where are you? You’re in London, and I’m in Corleone, in Caracas, in Bergen. John. I need to touch you. I need to know, to _feel_ , that you are here, that I am here. I need to know that for sure.

There’s a knock at my door.

-

He’s here. I still can’t believe that he is here. Oh God. How is that even possible? How could anyone fake their own death? It’s not something possible. It’s not realistic, it’s not believable. You can’t just drop it in casual conversations at Tesco. _Oh, yes, tomatoes are over there, did you know that my flatmate faked his own death?_

It has been ten days. He came back, he waited for me to recover from the shock. Then he dragged me to chase some criminal. Sebastian Moran. _The last one_ , he called him. _He was at the pool, John. We have to kill him, and then this will be over_.

In the end, _I_ killed him.

He looked so happy. Happy. It’s not something you would expect in a moment like that. Or maybe it is. I don’t really know what he did during the past three years. He has told me some things, but I bet it’s not even the half of it.

And now… What are we supposed to do, now? We are trying to pretend that everything is normal, we’re acting as if nothing happened, as if the past three years don’t exist. But they do. I thought you were dead, Sherlock. You made me watch you, my best friend, the most important human being in my life, committing suicide. I couldn’t do anything, anything at all, anything in the world, to avoid that, to stop you from telling me those things on the phone, from stepping off that roof, from falling down, from hitting the pavement, hard. From dying.

I thought you were dead. It’s not something possible, coming back from the dead, right? It only happens in movies and books. It’s not real. Come on, it can’t be real. But in the past ten days, you were here. No. I must be hallucinating, or something. Ten days. They felt so real.

They can’t be, though. They can’t be. Nobody is allowed to come back from the dead Sherlock, not even you. Not even you. I thought I killed a man for you, another one, but I didn’t, not really. I only imagined it, right? You’re dead. You’re not downstairs, sleeping in your room. Probably naked, because that’s something you often do. Did.

I can’t do that right now, I know. I can’t come in your room at night just to touch you. I need to touch you, and I know that it’s the same for you. I notice it. I see what you do. You try to do it casually, as if it’s normal, as if it’s something we have always done, but you know – and I know, Sherlock – that it’s not like that. It’s something new. It’s something we didn’t use to need, but we need it now, because something between us has changed. You died. I saw you dying. You came back.

Or not.

Ok, that’s it. I’m coming downstairs. I’m knocking at your door.

-

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Are you awake?”

“Yes, obviously. Is there something wrong?”

“No, it’s just… I just wanted to…”

“What? Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, yes. I’m all right. Are you?”

“Yes, John, I am. Look, just tell me what’s the problem, because there clearly is a problem. You wouldn’t be here, otherwise, would you?”

“I… I was thinking that maybe we could… talk? A bit. Just to pass the time. We both can’t sleep”.

“ _You_ can’t sleep, I just _don’t want to_. But yes. We can share the bed. Is that okay?”

“Yes. It’s okay. Are you naked?”

“No. I have pants on”.

“Okay”.

“Okay”.

-

We talked. Not so much. The funny thing is: I came downstairs to touch him, and the first thing he did as soon as I was lying next to him was to touch me. He touched me, he touched me first, he put his hand on my cheek. His big, pale hand. And just a second later, I was touching him back, my hand on his neck, his veins pulsing under my fingers, his blood inside him, as it should be. Him, alive, again, here, with me.

But we talked. A bit.

We’re kissing now. We have been doing that for… I don’t know, maybe ten minutes. His mouth is pressed against mine, his tongue is stroking mine, wet and hot and beautiful. It’s bigger that the other mouths I have kissed, women’s mouths. His tongue is bigger, thicker, rougher. It’s beautiful. He is beautiful.

I’m not. Oh, God. Suddenly, I’m a bit self-conscious. We’re about to have sex, I think. And what if he doesn’t like me? What if he doesn’t like my body? He liked Irene’s, but she was beautiful. I don’t think I’m beautiful. He is the beautiful one, he is the smart one, he is the genius. I’m just his friend. I’m just a shadow.

But he is kissing me, he is touching me, my chest, he is tugging at my t-shirt, he wants me to take it off, so I do. The scar. Oh. He’s touching my scar. He is kissing my scar, he is licking my scar, he is biting my scar.

Oh.

I can feel his erection pressed against my thigh. Warm. Everything about him is warm. I’m the only one who is able to see his warmth. I’m the only one, everyone else thinks about him as cold, thoughtless, selfish, mean, reckless, a sociopath, a psychopath. But he is not, I know him. I know him for real.

Oh. Oh. He is tugging at my pyjama bottom now, at my pants. Oh. His hand is on my… on my…

Oh. Oh. Sherlock. Yes. Please. Please.

I’ve missed you so much. So much.

There’s something else pressed against my penis. Something which is not his hand. Oh. It’s his own penis. He’s stroking us, the both of us. I keep kissing him. I keep caressing him. I put my hand on his and I help him.

Oh. This is so beautiful. I can’t believe that it feels so good. It’s perfect, perfect. Nothing else matters, only you. Your hand on my penis, my hand on your hand, my hand on your penis, our tongues pressed together, licking at each other, your teeth on my bottom lip, my tongue on your neck, the taste of your skin, pale, sprinkled with moles.

It’s perfect. Perfect. You’re perfect. You’re mad, and you’re perfect. You’re my best friend, my soul mate, the half I was missing to be whole. I could never leave you. I want to do this forever, Sherlock. Don’t leave, don’t leave me again. Not ever. Please. Please.

Stay with me, Sherlock. Stay with me. Stay. Stay. Stay. Stay. I need you here. I need you. I can’t live without you. This may sound cheesy, but it’s true, believe me. Please. Stay with me for the rest of your life. Grow old with me. We could retire to Sussex, you told me you like it there. You can keep bees, you’d love that.

Don’t leave me. Don’t. I’m not whole if you’re not here. Just stay here. Maybe tomorrow you’ll say that this was a mistake, that we should just be friends. It’s okay. It’s okay. I will suffer, I will dream of you every night, I will dream of your hand on my penis, of your tongue in my mouth, of the noises you’re making right now, but it’ll be okay. As long as you don’t leave me, as long as you are here with me, it’ll be okay.

But please. Please. Don’t leave me. I can’t live without you. It’s true. I love you.

“I love you. I love you, Sherlock”

Oh, fuck. I said it out loud. Oh. You have stiffened, just a bit. Oh, you’re going to call this off, right? You’re going to kick me out of your room, forever. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. It’s true, but let’s pretend it’s not.

 “I love you too, John. I’ve always loved you. You’re beautiful”.

Oh. No. That’s not possible. But it is, apparently. You’ve said it, it’s true. You wouldn’t tell me a lie, not now, I know that because I know you. You faked your death, you lied about killing yourself, about the missile plans, about Irene and about the hound in the lab; but I know that you’re not lying now.

You’re using your gestures, your kisses, your strokes, to tell me that you love me. That bite, it meant _I love you, John. Believe me._

“I believe you”.

-

John. John. John.

There’s nothing else. You’re real, of course you’re real. How could I possibly think you weren’t real? You’re here, I’m touching you. I’m kissing you.

I’ve done this before. The kissing. Victor. At uni. He would have liked to go further, but I wouldn’t. I didn’t feel comfortable enough, not even with cocaine. Just thinking about it made me feel sick.

I don’t feel sick now. I feel wonderful. I am kissing you, John. Your mouth, your lips, wet and hot and beautiful, like everything of yours. Beautiful. You are beautiful, you know that, right? I bet you do. All those girlfriends, of course you know you’re beautiful.

I’m not, though. I know I’m not. I’m too thin, you keep saying so. You like curvy bodies, and mine has no curves whatsoever. My skin is so pale that is almost bluish, my face is weird. I have scars. But it doesn’t matter. It’s just a body. It’s my body. It’s not just transport, I know that now. But it’s just a body, everyone has a body. Yours is beautiful. I want to see more of it, take this thing off.

Oh. Your scar. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful, you’re perfect John. John, you are perfect.

My hand. It’s on your… Oh. I don’t know what I’m doing any more. I hope this feels good for you. It must be very different from anything you’ve experienced before. I don’t know. You keep saying that you’re not gay, but that doesn’t really mean anything John, you know. It doesn’t tell what you _are_. It tells nothing.

Oh. Oh. No. No. No. No. John. John. You’re not gay. You’re not gay. I heard you saying so. What am I doing, John? What are we doing? Oh. Oh. Quick. I have to remember this. I have to remember perfectly how this feels, how John’s hand on my penis feels, how John’s tongue in my mouth feels, how John’s hand stroking my chest feels. I have to remember this, it’s absolutely essential. I have to bury this moment in the deepest recess of my mind palace, I can’t lose this memory, I would never delete it, but I can’t allow it to fade, not even a bit, not ever. I have to remember everything of this moment, I have to. It could be my only chance. I know. I know how it’ll go. You’ll wake up tomorrow saying that it was a mistake, that we’re friends, that we can’t do that, that you don’t have feelings for me in _that_ way, and that we have to go back as we were, being friends, good friends, and nothing more. And I know I’ll say _yes, of course John, there’s no problem John, I think you’re right John_ , because I can’t lose you, so I’m going to take whatever you’re willing to give me. I won’t ask for anything else John, I promise. Just stay with me. Don’t leave me. I need you.

I love you.

“I love you”.

What?

“I love you, Sherlock”.

No. You’re not supposed to love me. You’re supposed to tell me that this is a mistake. Why are you saying this? You are so predictable, why do you keep surprising me?

I don’t know what to say, we’re kissing, how did you manage to speak? You’re incredible, you’re beautiful. I love you, John, yes, of course I love you.

“I love you too, John. I’ve always loved you. You’re beautiful”.

Believe me. Please, John, believe me. I know I’ve lied to you, I faked my death, but I’m not lying now. Can a kiss say that? I don’t know. It seems preposterous, but I’m trying to do that anyway. I’m trying to tell you. I love you. I love you. I’m stroking your penis to tell you that I love you. I’m pressing my ugly body against your beautiful one to tell you that I love you. I’m licking the inside of your mouth to tell you that I love you. That little bite on you bottom lip, just a minute ago, it was to tell you that I love you. _I love you, John. Believe me_.

“I believe you”.

 

 


End file.
